


Ambush

by Kemmasandi



Series: In Which Old Friends Get Up To Dodgy Tricks [1]
Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Other, Sticky Sex, speedwriting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 19:25:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kemmasandi/pseuds/Kemmasandi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Optimus helps Ratchet wind down after work. In an unorthodox fashion, mind you, but Ratchet certainly isn't complaining.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ambush

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my tumblr. This here's the edited version, which hopefully doesn't suffer as much from being written in half an hour under the combined influence of a caffeine and sugar high.

Ratchet’s back hit the wall with the scrape of metal on metal, his sensornet ringing with the sensation. A bit like pins and needles, judging by Raf’s description; quickly eclipsed by the intense wet rush of pleasure from his primary interface array.

“You work so hard, old friend,” Optimus said from his position knelt on the floor, hands tight on Ratchet’s hips and mouth pressed firm against Ratchet’s half-open panel. His voice should have been muffled by the proximity, but through a trick of the acoustics in the med-bay, or maybe just of his commanding tone, it rang like rain through the room, deep waves lapping around Ratchet’s body. “Let me help you release.”

It was dark, downshift time, no-one around bar themselves. Ratchet mumbled, words running together in mindless pleasure as his panel slid open all the way and Optimus took his spike as it extended, hot mouth pressing forward around it. He was right and Ratchet was too tired to care, too driven by everything his body was screaming at him to be mindful of what he’d usually say to that, right or not. There was metal under his hands, lubricant dripping down his thighs, and his awareness was already retreating, interface protocols devoting processor and spark to pleasure alone. He offlined his optics and let his head fall back, a throaty groan queuing up in his vocaliser.

Optimus sank close against him, the thick slide of his glossa swathing a line of lightning along the underside of Ratchet’s spike, wet heat all around him, dragging the answering charge from his nodes. The ache of fatigue did battle with the pure overcharged sensation, and lost. Optimus had learned a long time ago that Ratchet tended to be at his most sensitive when on the brink of exhaustion, the clash of spark-deep lethargy and the purely physical reaction of interfacing a combined force he had no guard against. 

Ratchet wasn’t complaining, though. No-one knew better than he did how nice it was to just… not think for a while.

He opened his mouth and spat static, arching back against the wall. His hips jerked, pressing him deeper into Optimus’ mouth. His spike burned, sensor ridges alight with the generated energy. Optimus had to be getting not much more than a mouthful of static—Primus alone knew why he was so intent on getting Ratchet down like this at least once a month, except Primus also knew Ratchet really didn’t caaAAARE—

Optimus’ intakes flexed around Ratchet’s length; his lips formed a seal around the base of it and he sucked, denta grazed along the upper and lower ridges as he drew back. Ratchet shouted out loud, only Optimus’ hands holding his hips in place preventing a convulsed buck. 

“Primus!” Ratchet gasped over the roar of his own overworked vents as Optimus drew one of his pressing hands along his pelvic armor and down onto his spike, fingertips stroking along the charge nodes, drawing out the energy. He pulled his mouth back completely, just brushing his lips over the spike’s tip, leaving a smudge of glistening silver transfluid over his mouth.

“I thought you were an atheist?” he said, and his tone was so neutral—owlishly interested, blatantly unsexy, so _Optimus_ —Ratchet stared down at him in infrared, and saw the heat pouring off his frame in surges.

“It’s a handy expletive,” he managed, writhing under Optimus’ grip. “Optimus, _please!_ ” He wasn’t sure what he was asking for anymore, only that it involved overloading so hard he’d be seeing blown circuits in his optics for days.

“As you wish,” Optimus rumbled. He pressed his lips to Ratchet’s spike in a chaste kiss, and the vibrations grounded themselves in Ratchet’s interface array and left starfire in his circuits. He opened his mouth, sank down over Ratchet’s entire length, and _hummed_.

Ratchet lost an entire minute in the throes of a beautiful, torturous overload.

He slowly came to bent over Optimus’ helm, using his broad shoulders as an unthinking crutch, one hand clenched over the back of Optimus’ helm and pressed so hard that the paint was scratching off on him. Optimus’ hands held Ratchet’s hips back against the wall, and his mouth was still wet around Ratchet’s spike, glossa sweeping in little waves across the underside, coaxing every last bit of charge and transfluid from him.

Ratchet groaned, and had to force himself to release Optimus. “You’re going to have to drag me to my berth after all,” he managed, sparing the energy to feel a little bit proud of himself when his vocaliser only shorted out twice. “I’m about to crash.”

Optimus gave his spike one last fond lick and drew back, tracing his fingers over the housing as Ratchet found the command to retract it again. “Go ahead,” he said, rising to his pedes and judiciously taking Ratchet’s full weight. Just in time—Ratchet felt his hydraulics shut down, dumping his full weight in Optimus’ arms.

“I’m here.”


End file.
